Endless Numbered Days
by Starking
Summary: The Wall was where he belonged, but on the nights that she was with him she could pretend otherwise. Jon/OC, T for sexual references, ONESHOT


_Have I found you?  
><em>_Flightless bird  
><em>_grounded, bleeding  
><em>_Or lost you?_

Staying with him the full night through had always been risky but when she woke up to crisp morning light and her head on his chest it was always worth it. He would press kisses into her hair as she fell asleep and watch the fire until it died. There was always a throbbing in his chest that told him a thousand things that were wrong with what they were doing, but she was stirring on his chest and that was all that mattered.

"Go to sleep," she told him, voice thick with sleep and he knew she was half-dreaming. He only smoothed his hand over her hair, rubbing circles over her shoulder blade until he was sure she was asleep again. A voice in his mind whispered that she could have a baby in her belly, and where would they be then? But the first time they made love, he resisted, because he said he couldn't bear that she might get pregnant. She promised him that she wouldn't, and somehow he found himself tangled in her, wrapped up in the furs of his bed.

They usually only stayed long enough to love each other, and then she would dress slowly and kiss him slowly and leave with her head bowed like she was sad. But sometimes she would stay, and they'd lounge afterwards, kissing and touching bare skin everywhere. Sometimes they would have a goblet or two of ale, and sometimes the ale would make them laugh like two kids in trouble as he tumbled over her again.

No matter what his conscience told him, Senna was there to quell his worries, saying that it was alright. Jon wanted to know how she knew but he never asked her, because she just _knew _just like she always knew. And when they woke up in the morning entwined together they looked up at each other and smiled and laughed like two teenagers who just did something stupid but didn't really care, and then, he supposed, that was exactly what they were.

He kissed her once and she rolled out of bed before he could kiss her again, and they both knew that if he kissed her again they'd never stop. She would dress herself until it came to the laces of her dress, then she sat on his bed and pulled her hair over her shoulder. He pulled the laces tight and tie them, all the while kissing the back of her neck and she laughed because that's where it tickled.

He peeked out the door first, to make sure there was no one in the hallways to see her leave, and then he kissed her at the door and she exited his room like nothing was out of the ordinary, because to her nothing was, but some little part of her always wanted to act like a guilty-but-not-really young girl and giggle and sneak away.

Then the next night she returned to his room and they repeated the night before, like they did every night since before they could remember. It was hard to recall how it started. He said they were sixteen and stupid and a little bit drunk, but she, always the romantic, said it was always there and they just needed a little push.

It didn't matter in the end, because it happened often and sometimes he'd wake to the sight of sunlight on her skin and the memory of having all of her and that was just about his favorite thing. Even when there was a raven from King's Landing, dark wings and dark words, they still sought each other, though perhaps because of need and not want.

She'd always known he wanted to take the Black but maybe she supposed that if she loved him enough he would stay, even though she knew the Wall was what was best for him, it was where he belonged, even if she pretended differently. Sometimes she'd cry because of it, and sometimes he'd be there to hold her but never to comfort her, because it wasn't alright, not to her, and he was going to go no matter how much she loved him or he loved her.

She always said she wouldn't stop him and she didn't, instead cried _don't stop _the night before he left and he vented his feelings on her in the best and maybe worst way possible. It was the second time she'd actually cried when they made love and the first time was only because it hurt. The second time was because she knew it would end, even though she kept her legs tight around his waist and hand fisted in his hair like if she held on tight enough he would stay with her forever.

Then she watched from his window as he left, and he looked up to where he knew she was and met her eyes and said everything that needed to be said through only a single glance before he turned and galloped away to catch up with the rest of the party that was leaving, one hundred for King's Landing and three for the Wall.

She didn't cry, because she'd had enough of that the night before, instead tied her apron around her waist like every morning and went to the kitchens to clean up, pretending that Jon was still in his room and imagining the night before to have not been their last.

And she wished that heartbreak wasn't so damn hard.

* * *

><p><strong>Erm, hullo!<strong>

**Yes, I'm still working on A Sunset Bird In Winter, but I got all the Jon feels and this thing was born. Which, I guess is okay because it's not a full story (but it might be one day? probably not.) Also I have writer's block so I'm hoping that if I write for something else it might let up.**

**I hope you liked this. I didn't actually work very hard on it so it's alright if you don't.**

**The verse at the beginning is from Flightless Bird, American Mouth, and the title is from Passing Afternoon, both of which are by Iron and Wine and don't really have anything to do with the story, I just listened to them a lot while writing this.**

**I put this under T because it's not anything too explicit but if you think this deserves an M rating just let me know and I'll change it.**

**I only own Senna. Jon Snow and all the angst that comes with him is property of George R. R. Martin.**


End file.
